


soft sea breeze

by Woodswolf



Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: Freeform, Gen, Introspection, Isolation, Memories, Psychological Trauma, Stream of Consciousness, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woodswolf/pseuds/Woodswolf
Summary: there’s a soft sea breeze drifting in through the window,ruffling his hair, his clothes, his soul.he’s tired.





	soft sea breeze

there’s a soft sea breeze drifting in through the window,

ruffling his hair, his clothes, his soul.

 

he’s tired.

 

he’s lost something precious,

the sparkles in his eyes,

the stars within his skies,

the whole within his heart.

 

he’s empty now,

wanting for something he can’t have.

a father and son both lost at sea,

separated by infinite water.

 

they could be dead and he wouldn’t know.

 

but for now he’s alone,

a lonely man begging for forgiveness,

wanting for a world he cannot see,

waiting for an end, alonely.

 

* * *

 

he remembers becoming awake,

being dragged back from his peaceful slumber.

there was a beautiful castle, he remembers,

it shone in the sunlight

like a sapphire in the sky

 

but it doesnt last.

 

the glasses are forced back on his face,

theyre not on right, his ears hurt

and the castle becomes blue drafting paper and white pencil

scribbled lazily by an unsteady hand,

weapons to destroy

 

he feels like death warmed over

but the creatures dont care

they drag him away without another thought

where are they taking him

hes so afraid

he doesnt want to die

(again?)

 

hes slung over a shoulder

weightless like a ragdoll,

he cant keep his eyes open

whats going on,

where

where is he going,

 

why,

why is he

 

its cold, and his chest hurts

theres too many points, angles

theyre digging into his skin

it hurts but

he cant move

 

time passes but doesnt register

hes so tired

then pain.

 

hes dropped suddenly, slammed into something

feels like wood,

his head is throbbing

theres noises but he doesnt hear

then movement but he doesnt feel

 

the next thing he knows

the air smells of salt

 

where is he

 

its cold,

and wet,

and moving, rocking,

and theres rain

its so cold

 

and theres thunder too.

thunder and lightning and rain

and waves, water

slopping over the side

hes in a boat

he hurts

 

its freezing

he cant feel his hands,

he can barely move but he

curls up on his side,

legs as close to his chest as he can get them,

arms, hands tucked in between

its so cold

 

theres water in his hair

he can feel it lapping against his scalp,

sometimes it comes up to touch his lips

he tastes saltwater

 

and theres water around the rest of him too,

his side,

his clothes are soaked,

hes so cold

 

hes

hes going to die

 

hes going to die,

cold and alone,

in the bottom of a boat,

so far from home,

so far from everything he knows,

hes going to die.

 

hes so tired

 

he cant keep his eyes open,

water in his mouth but not enough to

die faster

expire,

 

and then

the rocking stops.

the boat is pulled

up on the shore,

sounds like sand.

hes grabbed again,

tossed onto a back

its still raining

 

he can

feel them climbing.

only one set of footsteps now,

up and up,

a single step at a time

 

hes cold and wet and going to die,

and hes so, so scared

 

but then theres a squealing sound

like an old door opening,

and hes thrown to the floor again.

this time it feels like stone.

his head hurts,

he cant see,

he cant feel,

until

 

pain

something boxy

thrown at his stomach

who,

what,

 

he hears,

“this is life now”

a door slams.

 

* * *

 

hes so tired.

 

but now he’s back in the upper room,

sitting at the table,

his head resting on his crossed arms.

he doesn’t want to remember.

 

but the soft sea breeze comes back.

it’s in his hair again,

and stirring up the frayed, worn edges of his ancient clothes.

this is real, it says. this is real.

 

the smell of salt permeates everything.

it’s a part of him now,

as much of his identity as his name.

he’s a statue made of the sea,

of coral and algae and kelp,

of sea fans swaying in the current.

 

he’s alone and alonely,

but that’s okay.

almost.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this while sorta half-dissociating
> 
> anyway oh boy do i fucking love dying and being dead


End file.
